


Meeting Under New Flags

by likeadeuce



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Alternate Timeline, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-14
Updated: 2010-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-07 06:39:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/pseuds/likeadeuce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Welsey and Lilah had run away together?  This story imagines a new, different life for them -- but the past catches up with them anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meeting Under New Flags

_No one passes by casually, however lost he may be, although many visitors decide to stay forever_ \-- Isabel Allende, "My Invented Country"

_ . . .flee,_  
shadows of blood,  
starry ice, retreat at the pace of human steps  
and remove from my feet the black shadow -- Pablo Neruda

Both the _Almanac of the Americas_ and old Hector, who operates the town's single, excellent bookshop, have assured us that the "dry season" of central Chile's Lake District stretches from November to January. But November has come and gone, without a hint of promised dryness, and we -- an impatient pair of California transplants, who have waited out a long, wet winter-summer -- have begun to suspect the locals and the reference books of a joke at the _gringos_' expense. If it is a joke, it isn't a funny one. The confinement of cabin fever can strain the tempers of two people under one roof, even when said tempers are easy and compatible.

Lilah's and mine, suffice it to say, are not.

But Christmas week brings a break in the weather. By the third day of sunshine, the lake paths are dry enough for me to attempt a run, conjugating a free association of Spanish verbs to the beat of my soles on the packed dirt. _Mirar_ \-- to see; _desear_ \-- to desire; _poseer_ \-- to possess; _perder_ \-- to lose, I think, running each through its principal parts. Somewhere in the second mile, I'm convinced that it is possible to achieve a meditative state by the pure force of thinking in such an orderly language. In the third mile, I decide that's just high altitude and low oxygen talking. Feeling virtuous in my improved circulation and well-stretched lungs, shoving aside the premonition of tomorrow's muscle ache, I go home for a shower and join Lilah in the bed she hasn't yet left.

"The sun's out." I nudge her. "You should wake up."

She rolls toward me. "Sure, Wes. I'm sure that's exactly what you have in mind. Looking at the sunshine." I don't start an argument. She knows me too well.

*

In late afternoon, I coax her down to the café. This place will do a busy trade by the evening, but now only a few men crowd the bar to watch a _futbol_ match from Santiago on a small black and white television. We take a table by the open windows where a breeze off the lake drives away the summer heat.

Lilah calls for a beer, loudly, in English. Behind the bar, two waiters jostle for the privilege of serving us. I come here often enough to be an accustomed novelty, but my wife -- as she's called for simplicity and the semblance of disguise -- is still an object of open curiosity.

Old Hector is on his way out when we enter. He stops to greet us, bending to kiss Lilah on each cheek, in the country's genteel custom. "Did I not say that our friend the sun would return?" he booms in rich English. "It is just like your California."

Lilah's smile cuts across her face. "I suppose it would have to come back, statistically. As we aren't actually living in an aquarium. Anyway," she adds, with a nod at me, "last time we were in Los Angeles, there was no sun at all."

The old man laughs, slaps my shoulder, and tells me, in rapid Spanish, "She is everything you say, my friend, and more."

Lilah keeps her smile until he steps out the door, then chugs from her beer. "They think I don't understand their stupid language."

"Well, darling --" I sip a Diet Coke -- "I suppose that may be because you refuse to speak it."

She levels her eyes at me and enunciates the words as though I'm the obstinate child here. "If you speak it, then they know you understand, and they won't say things in front of you. How else do you find out the help is cheating you?" She preens, proud of her logic. "I learned that from my mother."

"Nice to see good values passed down in families."

"As opposed to the taking-innocent-girls-and-throwing-them-at-vampires kind of values."

There's no good answer for this. I have the sense not to try one, and I'm relieved when the younger waiter brings me a fish stew, and Lilah a plate of _carne asada_. We haven't needed to order; it's what I eat every day, what I've taken home for her almost every night. She rips into the spiced steak, leaving me to thank the boy, who nods, leans close, and murmurs, "She is, indeed, as you say. . ."

He returns to the bar, to report to his friends. Between bites of her meat, Lilah says, "If I were the suspicious type, I might think you'd been coming down here every day to tell vulgar stories about me."

"The culture of _machismo_," I answer gravely. "I had to give them something or they'd be insulted. Though don't worry." I lean closer. "I would never brag about anything we haven't done."

"That might be a comfort --" She raises a finger to her mouth and licks a bit of the rich dark sauce -- "if I could think of anything we hadn't done."

"Are you telling me we've reached the limits of the Lilah Morgan imagination?" I whistle. "I can't decide whether to be flattered or let down."

She bites her lip. "Now you've got me thinking. You were just saying I needed a hobby --"

"I would certainly approve of such an application of your ingenuity."

Her eyes wander to the men huddling at the bar, who quickly pretend they've been watching the match. "I bet you told them," she muses, "about the redhead in Reñaca." Before I can point out that she'll need to specify -- if we actually have a common interest, it's in slender young redheads -- she reaches out to run fingers down the inside of my elbow. "The one with the shamrock tattoo right on the top of her --"

As long as I've known Lilah, it turns out she still has the power to make me blush. Not only because I remember that night at the beach but because she's right; I've turned it into a story.

"I bet I know exactly how you told that one, too," she says. "In fact, I could probably make a list of your very favorite times, and your very favorite details. We could do it like a quiz show. You write yours, and I write mine, and we compare --"

I look at the table top. Someone has scratched "_Matilda, te amo_" into the veneer. "This is a very nice game," I tell her, "but it might go better at home, where we have access to -- pen and paper."

She raises a hand in the air and snaps her fingers. "_Garçon!_"

I cover my face. "That's French," I say, "and your manners are appalling." When I look up, she's making a furious writing motion at the waiters. The older one comes rushing, this time, with a ballpoint pen and memo pad. Mentally, I add a few pesos to the tip.

Lilah looks intently at the paper, and speaks as she writes. "Wesley's -- top ten -- sexual -- experiences -- as told by -- told to --" She looks up. "How do you want to work this?"

I take a moment to marvel that I ever thought my _machismo_ could be a match for Lilah's. Then I reach over and touch my fingers to her knuckles. "This afternoon wasn't bad, hmm?" I say softly.

"Hmmm." She taps the pen and frowns as though she's really performing some sort of calculation. "This healthy and sober kick you're on -- it's not nearly as exciting as despair and moral confusion. On the other hand, you've got good circulation going for you, so I don't have to work as hard and there's less suspense about the outcome. So, this morning --"

"Afternoon," I repeat, and, running ahead of my patience, "though I can see it would seem like morning when you spend twenty hours a day in bed."

Lilah stabs the pen into the notepad and in a flash, she's on her feet. "You drag me out here to give me a lecture --?

"No --"

" --about using my time productively?"

I'm on my feet too. "No!"

"Is that it?"

"Did I just say 'no,'?" I breathe in and look away. "I just --"

"I'm doing my Pilates every day. I'm not going to get fat on you. Otherwise, why do you give a shit what I do?" She slams her hands on the table, and the patrons give up pretending to watch anything else. They're probably wishing for subtitles, but it's more like an opera than a film; it's fairly easy to get the gist.

"I --" With everyone watching, no one understanding, I get to my feet and put a hand on her arm. It seems important to choose the next words carefully, to make certain that they are precise. I've always been particular about describing relationships, shying away from abstractions. "I worry about you sometimes."

I immediately feel that, precise or not, this is the most absurd and inadequate thing I could have said, and brace against the retort she's about to throw in my face. Then she stops, and a smile spreads across her face. "My God," she says. "My God, I believe that was meant to be some sort of a declaration."

"I -- well --" It amazes me, how quickly she's grasped a meaning I barely understood myself.

Lilah settles back in her chair, snaps her fingers again, and calls, "_Dos cervezas_." To me, she says, "No 'buts.' Wesley Wyndam-Pryce worries about me sometimes. We're both drinking to that."

*

It's been seven months since I had my last drink; even the cheap and excellent local wines I've left for Lilah. Now I'm down three beers and feeling dizzy. I imagine myself a year ago in Los Angeles, drinking Scotch for breakfast; the two of us last March on the coast, swallowing anything we could hold, taking turns with whatever tourist trash caught our eye in the clubs.

It all seems like a distant dream, as I sit here, a three-_cerveza_ drunk in a small café in this sleepy mountain town certified "tidy but boring" by last year's _Rough Guide_ \-- which was all the recommendation we needed after the madness of Reñaca. Now Lilah is leaning against me, laughing, tracing a finger up the hollow of my throat. "You know what we've never done?" she whispers, then points at the doe-eyed younger waiter. "We've never done him."

"Oh no," I tell her. "No no no no no. You will _not_\--" I poke a finger into her breastbone -- "-- risk alienating the staff at the only decent restaurant in this town. Because then? We will either be required to move to the other side of the fucking Andes -- or one of us -- will be forced to learn to cook. And it certainly --" I lean in to kiss her neck "-- will not be me."

"Right," she says, "right. Because you already work so hard. On your very unimportant translations." She brushes lips to my chin. "This way you pretend that you are _working_ for the obscene amount of money that the Council sends you. And that they didn't buy you off because they were afraid of what you would get up to if they let you alone."

"We, darling," I say. "They should be afraid of what we'll get up to. If we had any self-respect, we'd be down here taking over the world." I press the flat of my hand to her breast, and mumble, "Why aren't we doing that?"

"Taking over the world?" She sighs. "That sounds like an awful lot of work. And there's an Ingrid Bergman festival on TCM this weekend. Maybe I'll have some ambition if the satellite dish goes out again."

"See then?" I laugh and start to kiss her ear. "This is me, doing good deeds. I save the world by keeping Lilah Morgan well-fed, well-entertained and very very --" Nipping her neck " -- well-fucked."

I'm about to suggest that we go home and work on those top ten lists, when Lilah's eyes go to the door and she slides into her own chair. Sounding abruptly sober, she says, "Gringo in the house."

I look up and there's a boy, long and slim with some shag to his tawny hair. He wears loose jeans and a T-shirt that says "Pizza my Heart, Palo Alto, CA."

"Backpacker." I shrug.

"We don't get them." _Tidy but boring._ She frowns, straightens, and starts to arrange her hair.

The boy is pointing to a map, struggling in Spanish, when the bartender gestures at our table. I hear the words "_amantes americanos_."

"Did he just call us. . .?" I ask Lilah.

"_Amantes_ means 'lovers,'" she translates, unnecessarily.

"I understand that part, but --"

And then the boy is approaching us. "Excuse me," he says. Soft-spoken, well-mannered, "He said you two are Americans?"

"What did I do to deserve this?" I ask Lilah.

"You started jogging," she answers. "Only Americans run when nothing is chasing them. Also, these people don't know how you sound in your own language because you insist on talking to them in theirs."

"Which should, in itself indicate that I'm not American. Now if I were to yell loudly in English with the assumption that anyone would understand if they listened hard enough -- actually, dear, you're American enough for both of us."

The boy looks between us, slightly bewildered, until she offers him a hand. "My name's Laura Harding," she says. "This is my husband, John. He's a limey, and he thinks he's funny."

"Actually," says the boy, "I heard the Chilean slang for 'British' is _huligan_. Because of all the noisy soccer fans." He gives a lopsided grin, which he must hope is endearing, and offers me a hand. "I'm Connor Riley," he says, "and I'm very very lost."

This, as he explains, turns out to be the mildest of understatement. He's driving with his girlfriend in a rented Jeep, looking for a volcano -- "the one Darwin wrote about" -- that lies several hours down the Panamericano.

"If your vehicle's sturdy, there's a back road you can take," I say. "There's still some light. It will be easier if I can point you at the mountains, and draw a map." Lilah offers me the memo pad, first ripping off the top page, and folding it between her breasts. "I'll be right back," I promise her.

She leans in to kiss my cheek and purrs, "_Te amo_, John."

I swear I'll get her for this later, but I have to answer, and I do it in English. "I love you, too."

Connor and I step into the street, air rapidly cooling as the sun goes down. The boy coughs, "You been married long?"

I feel a smile play at my lips. "Are you suggesting that's unlikely?"

"I dunno." He shuffles his feet. "My folks have been together ages, and they're still pretty sweet."

"I imagine we're a little younger than your parents."

"Oh, I didn't mean --" he stammers.

I look at the kid. He's twenty at the outside; college student, first time alone with his girlfriend. Staying in hotels. First sex without the threat of parents or roommates. Maybe first sex at all, maybe still waiting, still hoping. I ought to give the kid a break. "Less than a year," I tell him. "We're practically honeymooners."

There's a small ragtop Jeep parked across the street. A girl with a tan and tightly-curled blonde hair calls to him. "Hey, Connor! Are we still lost?"

"I'm taking care of it!" He smiles at her, and whatever they have, it's both comfortable and delicate. I ought to give the kid a break, but then I think -- _Connor._

"So what do you do down here?" he asks me.

"Retired early," I tell him. "I used to be in high-tech on the West Coast, got out before the bubble burst. Now I'm writing a book on the indigenous music of the Mapuche Indians."

"Oh, I --" He laughs. "Um, yeah. Well, I downloaded some Victor Jara tracks onto my Ipod back in Santiago." Then, "Were you in Silicon Valley? I go to Stanford; I'm trying to intern at Google this summer."

I swear at myself for the novice liar's mistake of unnecessary elaboration. I could bullshit an American college kid indefinitely about native musical traditions, and a techie about silicon for maybe twenty seconds. "I'm not supposed to talk about it," I improvise, making faces of regret. "Terms of the legal settlement. It got kind of nasty." Then I look hard at the boy. "What brings you here?"

"Winter break -- I don't know. Tracey and I grew up together, around L.A. We wanted to see a different part of the world. We were talking about Europe, then I got this brochure in the mail -- You like it here?"

"It's like any other place," I tell him. "Slightly more volcanoes. Which are really just mountains, as long as you don't fall in."

I draw the boy a map and point him toward the right mountains as references.

"You got it?" asks Tracey.

He grins at her, then apologizes to me. "She might throw me in a volcano if we don't get on the road soon."

"Yeah," Tracey swats his arm. "And if you don't stop quoting _The Motorcycle Diaries._"

"Yeah," Connor smiles, "that too."

"If you need another book, there's a nice shop across the square," I tell him. "They have everything in Spanish, and a nice selection in English too. Tell Hector I sent you, and he'll give you a break."

"Thanks." Then Connor bursts into a broad smile. "It's all pretty amazing. Like this whole world underneath the one we've always known. I mean, maybe it's just a place, and if I grew up here, it would be what I always knew. But I can't stop thinking -- you look up at night, and even the stars are different."

The answer I give comes by instinct, so I know I've heard it before, but I can't place the source of the words. "The stars are the same," I tell him. "It's just where we're standing that changes things."

"Well, all right," Connor laughs. "Point taken. But still -- where you're standing can make all the difference."

*

When I get back from the café, Lilah is gone. I take a moment to count the men in the room, but no one's left. So I throw aside nasty suspicions, clear up the tab, go home, and find her in bed. She has her head propped on one elbow. On the television, Ingrid Bergman is arguing with Charles Boyer. Or possibly Robert Donat. I never remember which one is actually French.

"So," says Lilah. "Spy?"

"I don't know," I admit. "He could just be a lost college kid."

"But?"

"This is an awfully hard place to get lost to."

"So if he is a spy -- your people or mine?"

"My people are your people now," I point out. "And Angel's hardly the type to spy on us. He just sends cryptic letters that don't tell me anything, and otherwise he hardly seems to care enough."

"Your Angel-related heartbreak and your utter inability to grasp the workings of Wolfram &amp; Hart aside," she answers, "I meant your people at the Council."

"It crossed my mind. But why? The Council and the firm both know we're here. If a third party were trying to contact us -- well that's possible, but I think he'd do more than ask how long we'd been married and where he could find a bookstore. I should call Hector to see if he really went," I muse. "But if he's competent at all, he would have."

"So all we can really find out is if we're being spied on by idiots." She sighs. "It's probably nothing, but --" She looks at me. "Something about this bothers you."

"The name," I admit. She nods. "Connor's been a very popular given name in the States over the last ten years or so. Before that, it was rare. The kid's at least nineteen. Which means nothing by itself, but --" She meets my eyes, and I say, "You _know_ this. You had a whole file on him."

"An enormous fucking file," she answers. "Lots of Connors and O'Connors in Angel's family tree. And if there are two people in the world who would know that, they're us."

"So it's a message?" I say. "From who? And why?"

She shrugs. "Maybe trying to make us paranoid."

"Coals to Newcastle, I'd say. If there's one thing we're well-stocked in --"

"Why are you here?" she cuts me off. "Why did the Council send you here? With me?"

The turn is so abrupt, I don't know how to answer for a moment. "They didn't. I chose the place." I sit beside her and touch the warm skin of her neck. "And I chose you."

She jerks her neck away from me, not ready to be distracted. "They sent you somewhere," she persists. "They gave you the illusion of choice, but they wanted you somewhere far from L.A. And they must have had a reason."

"Simple enough. I fucked up. Bringing Angelus back was my idea. That went pear-shaped, and then . . ."

"Yes, yes, and you were using your Council training, in which they have a proprietary interest, for dubious purposes. Consorting with the likes of me, for one thing. But there's more."

"Not that I know of."

"Exactly."

"Slow down," I tell her. "I'm using human logic here. I don't speak lawyer."

"There's more," she repeats. "That you don't know and I don't know. The pieces of this, of you and me and how this all happened -- they don't fit." She rolls on her stomach, propping her chin in her hands. "We don't make sense. There you are, Angel's one and only, and suddenly you've left him and you're there with me --"

"Lilah, I hardly think Angel ever felt --" And I stop, realizing what I've just said, and not said. "What are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting someone wanted us to forget."

"And so we just did?"

"It's called magic," she says drily. "Maybe you've heard of it."

"Darling," I tell her, "that's incredibly paranoid."

"Is it?" she answers. "Wolfram &amp; Hart used to do it all the time with sensitive assets. People who knew too much but were too valuable to terminate."

"All right," I sigh. "For the sake of argument, let's say that's what happened. Who did it? Why?"

"If we knew why, we'd know who." She flops down on her back, and I lie beside her.

I run a hand up her neck, and brush the hair from her forehead. "Has it occurred to you," I say, "that I'm here with you because I want to be."

"Oh yeah?" At last she lets me kiss her, "Why don't you prove it?"

*

"We've definitely done that before," I tell her. "Hope you weren't bored."

"Funny I don't even mind."

"You think married people make love like this?"

"I thought we were married."

"Well, the Council did that to hurry up our papers. Same with the assumed names. It's a technicality -- a convenient fiction."

"That's what marriage is," my wife tells me. "Technical, convenient, and fictional."

"So I'm not only married, which I never thought I'd be. But I'm married to a lawyer. Which I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.'

"I know," she says. "It absolutely sucks."

And we laugh and we lie together in the dark, until one of us falls asleep.

*

The Chilean night sky is the brightest in the Southern hemisphere. We've hardly had a view of it, with all the rain. I step onto the porch, a few hours before dawn. _A whole world,_ I think, _underneath the one we know._ It would be easier to meditate about this, if I were alone.

I turn on the porch light, and the girl jumps. "We could have used a redhead a few hours ago," I say. "As it is, you're late. Of course, you may have been here for hours, but even in this hemisphere, it is customary to knock if you want to speak to someone."

"I know," says Willow. "I was trying to decide if I wanted."

"So you just happened to be deciding on my porch? There's a lot of coincidence going on today."

"I happened to be in Reñaca with my girlfriend for New Year's. I was the closest Council Operative, so today when you made contact with Connor Riley, I got the call."

"All right," I say. "Who is he?"

"I was hoping you would tell me." She shakes her head. "Wes, don't make me do this the hard way."

"The hard way?" I repeat. "I gave directions to a lost tourist. I was unaware that violated the terms of my retirement, or house arrest, or whatever bloody name you people have decided to put on this. I can't even imagine how you would find out --" The answer dawns, and I swear. "Bloody hell, Hector. Ex-Watcher?"

She shakes her head. "Not exactly. Old friend of your father's, though."

"Bloody hell," I repeat. "I should have known." And I should. I don't normally make friends that quickly. I race through what I might have mentioned to him about my family, wondering how much would have gotten back. "Look, as far as I know, the lost kid was just a lost kid."

"As far as we know too," Willow admits. "But you understand how you meeting someone from California looked suspicious. We had to check. I thought it was fair to tell you. Also I guess --" She pushes the hair behind her ears. It's cut shorter than I remember, red ends tinted blonde by the sun. "I wanted to check in, see how you were. Remind you it's not forever. I feel like I've been on both sides of this -- I went through a rough patch, and I had to go away for a while too, get my head on straight. The Council and the Coven really were very understanding and --"

"Willow," I interrupt. "I know you mean well. I used to work for the Council, and I certainly remember my own days as the well-meaning asshole." She gives me a sharp look. I think about the implications of pissing off the most powerful witch in the hemisphere, but it's too late to stop now. "However, I ought to point out that your 'rough patch' involved almost destroying the world. The Council didn't like what I was doing with some of their books. It's hardly the same level."

"There was more than that," says Willow. "I was in the deliberations with Giles and Buffy. I --" she swallows, "-- talked to your father. There was more than that going on."

"What?" I challenge.

She hesitates. "You know."

"No," I tell her. "I don't. And when you think about it, neither do you." I move closer, trying to see her eyes in the faint light. "That's true, isn't it? You try to remember exactly what happened, and from a distance it makes sense, but when you move closer, when you ask questions --" I spread my hands. "What's wrong with this picture?"

"A memory spell," says Willow. "Is that what you're suggesting?"

"There is a history, am I correct?"

"No!" says Willow. "I mean, yes. I've done them. But the Council, no. They frown on them. A lot, believe me. If anybody knows, I do. Much much frownage."

"Which is what you'd say even if you were the one who'd done it."

"I would," she admits, "if I did. But I'm not and I didn't."

"Clearly." I meet her eyes. "You're with me on this." She nods slowly and she might simply be a very good performer, but I've spent the past year with a very good performer, and I think maybe it makes me better at detecting a truth. "So somebody's screwing with all of us -- you and me and Lilah, at the least. You say it's not the Council. So who's left?"

"I hate to be the one to point this out, but -- well, is your girlfriend still evil?"

"Wife," I answer. "And of course. But on the other hand, she's the one who pointed it out. So. As we round up the usual suspects." I cough. "What's the Council's official position on the new management of the Los Angeles branch of Wolfram &amp; Hart?"

"Officially, we don't deal with them. Unofficially, we don't know what the fuck is going on with them. Now you --" She cracks her knuckles and looks at me. "Would you go back there if he asked you?"

I stare at her for a moment, then laugh. "You're casting a broad net with that one question. No, Angel hasn't asked me back. Hasn't asked either of us. I get the occasional cryptically-phrased letters that frequently seem to be referring to events I've never heard of. But I suspect that's just his style, and it's not as though I've said much in return. 'Hi, Angel, remember me?. I traded my freedom for your soul, which you promptly sold to the same people we'd been fighting. Not that I have any room to talk, as I've apparently gone and accidentally married one of them. Best regards, Wes.'"

Willow sighs. "Okay, I see how it sounds weird. But we -- the Council -- did keep up our end." I notice how easily she's fallen into 'we's.' I used to be part of that 'we' and it unnerves me a bit. The only 'we' I have left is me and Lilah, and I can't decide how I feel about that. Willow continues: "Me and Buffy and Giles got Angel's soul back, beat the Beast, brought back the sun. Broke Faith out of prison, which was your idea and -- got rid of that crazy Jasmine god person. We did everything you asked." She frowns. "Fred Burkle even sent a thank you note."

"I know. Ours is on the fridge. Lilah keeps spilling things on it, but she won't actually take it down. It gives her an excuse to feel neglected when she needs it."

She ventures a smile. "It sounds like quite a marriage you've got."

"It's never boring," I answer.

"So -- you're doing all right."

It's the first time in a long while that I've really thought about this. So I'm surprised when I can say, "Yes. I think I am."

"It's not forever," she repeats. "There will be other fights."

"Such as, for instance," I say. "If this Riley boy turns out to be something and contacts me again, I should let you know. And if you need someone to infiltrate the Los Angeles branch of Wolfram &amp; Hart, to try to figure out what it is they want everyone to forget --"

She looks at me closely. "Would you?"

"Probably not. If it posed any risk to Angel or the others, definitely not. But -- this is a complicated situation. If you want to keep in touch, compare notes -- maybe even give me a legitimate reason to look at the Big Boy books again?"

"I don't know," she says. "I may have to --"

"Talk to Giles," I sigh. "I used to be the official asshole. I understand."

"I may have to think about it," she says.

"No better place for thinking than under this sky."

Looking up at the vastness, Willow yawns. "I'll never get used to it," she says. "All new stars."

She echoes the boy's words from this afternoon, and now I remember why they sounded familiar. My father's first field posting as a young Watcher sent him to New Zealand. He told me the story a hundred times; stepping off the plane in Auckland -- seeing the Southern Cross for the first time, and the knowledge that came to him, that he passed on to me.

A wind comes off the lake and Willow, still dressed for the beach, shivers. I take off my jacket and drape it around her shoulders. "The stars are the same," I say. "It's where we're standing that makes all the difference." Raising my eyes to trace the cosmic patterns of a new world, I tell her, "I learned that from my father."


End file.
